Fatal Fallout

by Lara Lacombe

“I know you’ve had quite a shock this morning,” he said, his voice kind and soothing. “But right now I want you to let us worry about finding out the who and why of this situation.”

  She nodded, knowing she wasn’t much help in that department. “Have you already talked to the other detectives? They may have found something on my computer—I think they were trying to trace the email.”

  He shifted a bit, giving her the impression he was uncomfortable with her question. “No,” he said after a few seconds. “I haven’t spoken with them. I’m actually here for you.”

  What? That doesn’t make sense. “I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “Why would the FBI send an agent for me? Shouldn’t you guys be looking for Ivan’s killer?”

  “Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that,” he said. “We can’t interfere in the Russian investigation, which ties our hands a bit. Really, all we can do is wait and see if Ivan’s killer comes after you.”

  Her stomach somersaulted as his words sank in. “So you’re saying I’m bait?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way,” he assured her. “We’re not actually trying to lure the killer in. We just want to make sure you’re safe, on the off chance the threat to you does materialize.”

  He made it sound as if she wasn’t in any danger, but his words did nothing to ease the leaden weight in her stomach. “I see.”

  He stood, looming over her briefly before taking a step back. “There’s not really anything you can do here, so I can take you home or I can take you to my office. Your choice.”

  Apparently, whatever she chose, she was now going to have a shadow. It might be safer for her at his office, but the thought of home was too tempting to pass up. She could brew a cup of tea, sink into her favorite chair and try to forget the image of her murdered friend. She may even be able to ignore Agent Kincannon and crawl back into bed, where she could cry for Ivan in peace.

  “I’d like to go home,” she replied. Alone, preferably, but since that was not an option, she’d settle for his company.

  Agent Kincannon nodded, holding out a hand to help her off the couch. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  The drive to her apartment was quiet, with Claire speaking only to give him directions. It was just as well, because he didn’t know what to say to her. Sorry your friend is dead seemed a bit insensitive, even to him. Fortunately, she didn’t appear to be up for conversation, so he wasn’t forced to make small talk.

  She held herself carefully, as though she was in pain or would break if jostled. Her brows were drawn together, lips pressed into a thin white line, and her eyes shone with that thousand-yard stare of shock he’d seen all too often on the faces of people who had suffered a life-changing blow. It was the same expression she’d worn when he’d entered the break room and found her sitting on the couch, lost in her own thoughts. He hated seeing that look on a woman’s face, hated the feeling of helplessness that rose up in him at the sight of her suffering. He was struck by the urge to act, to do something, but no amount of soothing words would fix what a killer had done to her.

  Besides, it wasn’t his job to comfort her. He was supposed to protect her, keep her safe from harm. Well, physical harm, anyway. He couldn’t do anything about her emotional pain, and she likely wouldn’t welcome any of his clumsy attempts to make her feel better. She didn’t know him, he didn’t know her, and it was easier for both of them if it stayed that way. He had his hands full helping Jenny, Emily and his mother deal with their grief. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to help Dr. Fleming process hers, too.

  She directed him to an apartment building on Wisconsin Avenue, along a residential stretch of the busy thoroughfare. A wide sidewalk ran alongside the street, punctuated every few yards with small trees, the city’s attempt at beautification. It was a pleasant-looking neighborhood. The sidewalk was in good repair, if littered with fallen leaves, and a quick glance at the cars parked nearby confirmed his initial impression that this was a solidly middle-class area.

  After taking a few steps into her apartment, Claire stopped and stared at the living room, shaking her head back and forth as if trying to figure out how and why she was there. Recognizing the signs of an imminent collapse, Thomas stepped forward, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Why don’t you lie down for a bit? We can talk once you’ve had some time to process everything.”

  She nodded but made no move to head for a bedroom. He gave her a gentle push to get her started, and she walked mechanically down the hall until they reached her bedroom. The room was cool and dark and smelled faintly of lavender. He wasn’t surprised to find the bed neatly made, the pale yellow comforter spread smooth across the expanse of mattress. The quick glance he’d seen of her apartment had left the impression of a woman who liked organization, wanted everything kept in its place. Now that her life had been flipped upside down, the lack of control must be killing her.

  He helped her pull the covers down, then knelt to tug off her shoes as she sat on the edge of the bed. The gesture was surprisingly intimate, and he felt a sudden flare of heat as he pulled off the sensible brown pump to reveal the graceful arch of her foot, the pretty pink of her toenails. He’d never considered himself a foot man before, but he couldn’t deny the good doctor was lovely. What else was she hiding beneath her professional armor? The thought drew him up short and he reared back, almost falling onto his ass in the process. Get it together, Kincannon. One look at her toes and you’re drooling? Pathetic.

  He stood abruptly, hoping she didn’t notice the blush he felt creeping across his cheeks. He glanced down at her and realized he could have paraded a brass band through her apartment without disturbing her—she was beginning to shut down, withdrawing further into her shell in a bid to block out the world. He recognized the impulse, having done the same thing after Roger’s death.

  Moving woodenly, as if every gesture required more effort than she could bear, Claire stretched out on the bed and turned to her side, giving him her back. Interpreting the gesture as a dismissal, he stepped toward her bedroom door but paused when he realized he still held her shoes. She probably wouldn’t want them just dropped on the floor, so he arranged them carefully next to the hunter-green chair that sat in front of a mirrored dressing table.

  “Thank you.” The words were soft but distinct in the silence of the room. He stopped in the doorway, turned back to the bed. She was so still, a pale statue that blended in with the light sheets.

  “I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.” He pulled the door closed after him, leaving it slightly ajar, then made his way back down the hall. He stopped in the kitchen, noting the window above the sink before moving on to the main room. The large room was lined with windows along the far end, giving the apartment a bright, friendly air. He walked over and drew the blinds down, effectively shrouding the room in a muted gray light. He was probably being paranoid, but there was no sense in making it easy for someone to see in.

  The front door was the only entrance, which wasn’t ideal. He walked back into the kitchen and leaned forward to see out that window, nodding in satisfaction as he caught sight of the fire escape railing. He unlocked the window and gave an experimental shove, wincing when it shuddered up with a creaking protest. He briefly debated oiling the tracks. On the one hand, it would be tough to make a quiet escape this way, but it would also provide an excellent warning if someone was trying to get in. Deciding the advanced notice of an intruder outweighed the need for a stealthy exit, he pushed the window back down, locked it and drew the shade.

  Opening the cabinet next to the sink, he was rewarded with the sight of rows of glasses lined up with military precision. He pulled one down and filled it with water, shaking his head. While his collection of glasses was a mixed bag of free cups and hand-me-downs from his mom or sister-in-law, Dr. Fleming’s were clearly of a set, uniform in appearance and size and all spo
tlessly clean. Her underwear drawer was probably the same way—white cotton panties all neatly folded and stacked...

  Whoa. Where the hell had that come from? He had no business thinking about Dr. Fleming’s underwear, or her underwear drawer for that matter. Pushing the unsettling thought firmly out of his mind, he walked back into the main room, pausing before the bookshelves. There were a few photos on display, mostly of landscapes or landmarks from past trips. His eyes caught on a picture of Claire, smiling and happy as she sat beside Ivan Novikoff on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. The older man had his head turned and was pressing a kiss to her hair as she grinned up at the camera. Interesting. Had they been an item? He was old enough to be her father, but maybe she preferred older men. It would certainly explain her shock at his death.

  If Ivan Novikoff had gotten entangled in something dangerous or illegal, would he have told his lover? Not likely, Thomas mused as he moved to scan the other set of bookshelves. He’d probably wanted to keep her safe, and had thought that keeping her out of the loop would protect her. But protect her from what?

  His position gave him access to lots of nuclear material, both spent fuel from aging reactors and potent radioactive fuel. There was quite a demand for radioactive supplies on the black market, and Ivan was the ideal supplier. As one of the people who kept track of nuclear material, it wouldn’t be difficult for him to fudge the records, divert a little bit of fuel at a time in exchange for money or power. And if he’d been in the business of selling radioactive materials, the kind of unsavory characters who were buying wouldn’t think twice about coming after his lover if he’d betrayed them.

  If that was the case, the Russians wouldn’t work too hard to find his killer. If Ivan was part of an underground, black market arms trade, it would be hugely embarrassing for the Russians to admit that the man they had entrusted with the safe disposal of nuclear fuel had been selling it to terrorists and rogue states.

  No, better for them to characterize his death as a random, horrible act, brush it under the rug and move on. Which meant it would be that much harder to figure out who had targeted Dr. Fleming.

  Running a hand through his hair, Thomas set his glass on the coffee table and reached for his phone. Just as he flipped it open to dial Harper, Claire’s terrified scream rent the air.

  * * *

  Claire sat across from Ivan, enjoying his company as they drank coffee and talked. His daughter was a musician with the Moscow orchestra, and he was telling her about Anya’s latest performance, his eyes glowing with fatherly pride as he bragged about her violin solo.

  “She was so beautiful,” he gushed, patting his pockets in search of something. “My phone—you must see the pictures.”

  Claire nodded, sipping her coffee as Ivan pulled out his cell phone. His head bent in absorption, he carefully pressed buttons on the keypad, his bushy eyebrows drawing together as he searched for the images. While he fought with his phone, she let her gaze drift past the table, frowning when she noticed a dark, amorphous mass creeping forward. What was that?

  She shivered as the smoky cloud drifted closer. There was something about it that seemed...malicious. As it drew nearer, she could see sparkles in the black fog as it glided across the ground, glints of light winking off something solid and metallic inside. It moved with such purpose that she knew it was heading for their table, and her heart began to pound, alarm sending spikes of adrenaline shooting through her limbs.

  Ivan remained oblivious to the threat, still searching for the pictures of his daughter. She tried to speak, to warn him, but her throat closed up and she couldn’t get the words out. Ignoring her frantic gestures, Ivan merely sat while the shadowy mass enveloped him, hiding him from view. Suddenly, his pained shrieks pierced the fog. She strained forward, reaching out her arms to grab him, but came up with nothing. After a breathless moment, the shadow disappeared to reveal Ivan, slumped over the table, his normally pale skin coated in blood from the thousand shallow cuts that crisscrossed his face and hands.

  Claire screamed, fighting against an unseen force that kept her from reaching him. He was still and unmoving, the red pool on the table growing steadily with each breath she took. “Ivan! Ivan!”

  “Claire!” There were hands on her arms, shaking her, pulling her away from the table, away from Ivan. “Claire!”

  She opened her eyes, breathing hard. “Ivan,” she whimpered. “I have to help Ivan.”

  “I know.” The voice was deep and soothing, and she was pulled into a warm chest while a hand stroked down her hair. “I know.”

  She sniffled into the starched shirt, her awareness gradually returning as strong arms rocked her back and forth and a deep voice rumbled, low and comforting, in her ear. Ivan was dead. Her friend, her mentor—the man she loved like a father—was gone.

  She’d lost her adoptive father almost twenty years ago. While she thought of him every day, the loss was no longer as raw as it had once been. She’d learned to cope, moving through life with the assumption that she would never again experience that kind of relationship.

  Until Ivan came along, slipping under her defenses and becoming so much more than a professional colleague. He shared his family with her, and she’d reveled in his stories, basking in the reflected glow of the love he felt for his family. His wife had embraced her, as well, in what had been a welcome surprise, given Claire’s strained relationship with her adoptive mother. Dena had remarried shortly after her husband’s death, and hadn’t wasted any time in starting a “real” family, one that Claire was decidedly not a part of.

  Ivan was—had been—such a good man. How could this have happened?

  She pulled back to wipe her face, her gaze connecting with the bright blue eyes of the man who held her. Agent Kincannon, that was his name. He smoothed her hair back with a soft hand, then gently stroked her arm. He probably meant the touch to be reassuring, but one of his fingertips had a small callus, and the rough patch dragged across her skin with a tickling friction that shivered through her body.

  She was suddenly very aware of the fact that they were in her bed, and she wanted nothing more than to lie back and pull him over her, to surrender to his weight. His lips were so close—she had only to tilt her head forward to touch her mouth to his...the urge was almost overwhelming. She could lose herself in sensation, postpone the need to think for a little while longer.

  The wild impulse must have showed in her eyes, because he leaned away, putting more distance between them. The cooler air of the room replaced the heat of his body, making her miss his warmth. She almost raised her hand to pull him back but stopped before she embarrassed herself. It wouldn’t be right for her to touch him; he was here to act as her bodyguard, not her boy toy. Besides, she shouldn’t be having such inappropriate thoughts in the wake of her friend’s death.

  “What happened?” She remembered lying down to rest, him leaving with a promise that he’d be in the living room. Why was he here now?

  “You screamed,” he said, scooting back to give her even more space. His shirt was blotchy with wet spots from her tears, and she flushed in embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, gesturing to his shirt. “For that, too. I’m quite a mess.”

  He looked down, shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. This isn’t the first time I’ve come to the rescue of a damsel in distress.” He shot her a sly grin, and she couldn’t help but smile in return. “Nightmare?”

  The smile faded from her lips as she nodded. “A bad one.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to think about it.” Those horrible images, both from the dream and the picture she’d been sent, were running through her mind, and she wanted nothing more than to stuff them into a box. Talking about them would only keep them fresh.

  “Fair enough.”

  She moved to get out of
bed, knowing she couldn’t go back to sleep now, wondering if she’d ever sleep peacefully again. Would she be able to close her eyes and not see Ivan, lying dead in a pool of his own blood?

  Agent Kincannon stood as she got up, stepping back to give her room. “Did you want to talk to me?” she asked.

  “Yes, but we can wait if you’re not up for it yet.”

  She shook her head. “Let’s do it now. Just give me a minute to splash some water on my face. I’ll meet you in the living room.”

  Her body ached as she moved stiffly into the bathroom, flipping on the light as she entered. She winced at her reflection, the bright lights revealing pale skin, mussed hair, tear-streaked cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. Not a pretty sight.

  She turned on the faucet, holding her fingers under the stream as she waited for the water to warm up a bit. She had no idea what kind of information she could provide that would help catch Ivan’s killer, but she wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.

  Agent Kincannon seemed like a nice enough man, but she didn’t like having a stranger in her home, especially not when she was grieving the loss of Ivan. She wanted privacy so she could fall apart without fear of being overheard. The last thing she needed was for him to hold her again. She was hanging on to her self-control by a very thin thread, and further temptation would cause her to break, a reaction that would only make things worse.

  After a few splashes of water, she patted her face dry and then quickly brushed her teeth. She ran a brush through her hair, pulling it back into a serviceable ponytail. Her shirt was hopelessly wrinkled, but she couldn’t summon the energy to change it. She didn’t really care how it looked anyway. Taking a deep breath, she turned to head out into the living room. I can do this.

  She settled onto the sofa, tucking her legs up so she was curled into a ball. Agent Kincannon took the recliner, leaning forward to place a glass of water on the table next to her. She blinked back the sting of sudden tears, absurdly touched by his thoughtful gesture. Not wanting him to see her emotional reaction to such an ordinary event, she reached for the glass, taking a small sip of water to wet her throat. “So, Agent Kincannon, where do we start?”